SECTION I

WOMEN, CHILDREN, LOVE AND MARRIAGE

WOMEN, CHILDREN,

LOVE and MARRIAGE

BY

C. GASQUOINE HARTLEY

AUTHOR OF “THE TRUTH ABOUT WOMAN,” “WOMEN’S WILD OATS,”

“MOTHER AND SON,” ETC.

[Illustration]

LONDON

HEATH CRANTON, LIMITED

6 FLEET LANE E.C.4

1924

_Printed in Great Britain for Heath Cranton, Ltd., by Clements Bros.,

Chatham_

And we won’t, we simply _will not_ face the world as we’ve made it,

and our own souls as we find them, and take the responsibility. We’ll

never get anywhere till we stand up man to man and face _everything_

out, and break the old forms, but never let our pride and courage of

life be broken.

D. H. LAURENCE in “Aaron’s Rod.”

CONTENTS

PAGE

Foreword 11

SECTION I.—WOMEN 13

1. Women and Cats 15

2. The Women of Spain 19

3. The Dangerous Age 29

4. The Legal Position of the Mother 35

5. Problems of Birth Control 37

SECTION II.—CHILDREN 41

1. A Boy’s Misery 43

2. Criminals Made in Our Nurseries 49

3. The Tyranny of Parents 51

4. The Superfluous Father 55

5. The Perfect Mother 59

6. Nobody’s Children 61

7. Let Us Pension the Mothers 71

8. Boy and Girl Offenders and Adult Misunderstanding 73

9. New Ways of Teaching Children 79

10. Difficulties and Mistakes in Sex Education 87

11. Sex Instruction. The Age at which Knowledge Should

be given 107

12. The Myth of the Virtuous Sex 113

13. Sentimental Tampering with Difficult Problems

with some Remarks on Sex Favouritism 117

14. The Seduction of Men 123

15. Playing with Love 127

SECTION III.—MARRIAGE AND OTHER RELATIONSHIPS 131

1. Is Passionate Love the Surest Foundation for

Marriage? 133

2. Marriage Reform 139

3. To-day’s Ideas on Marriage. Are we seeking

vainly after happiness? 141

4. Why Men are Unfaithful 145

5. Why Wives are Unfaithful 149

6. Should Doctors Tell? 157

7. The Modern Wife and the Old-fashioned Husband 161

8. The Temporary Gentleman and his Young Wife 165

9. Is Marriage Too Easy? 169

10. Passionate Friendships 173

11. Conclusion—Regeneration 187

INDEX 189

FOREWORD

The essays here collected were written on various occasions over a

considerable space of time. This will account for the diversity in the

subjects and for a certain amount of restatement of my own beliefs and

position.

I have not thought it advisable to attempt to alter this, since though

some of the things I have said before may be repeated, the point of

view and special application are in each case different.

Some of the essays have appeared already in various journals, but all

have been very carefully revised and altered and the great majority

entirely re-written.

In spite of the diversity of the subjects there is a common idea

beneath all the essays—a common back-ground of faith. I do not know

whether I am justified in my confidence that this idea—this faith is

abundantly manifest. If I should try to formulate it into one short

statement, I should say it was the responsibility that the old have to

the young—the debt that one generation owes to the next.

In my gospel there is one commandment which may not be broken: _Ye

shall not hurt a little child._

C. GASQUOINE HARTLEY.

MERTON PARK,

_March, 1924_.

SECTION I

WOMEN

WOMEN AND CATS

In an admirable speech that I heard a few weeks ago, women were likened

to cats. I do not remember exactly in what connection, however this

does not matter.

But this remark set me thinking—it was not the first time, by many,

that I had heard a man sum up the evil characteristics possessed, or

supposed to be possessed, by my sex by likening us to cats. I now asked

myself was this true? I want to be frank. Let me confess at once that I

have come to the conclusion that the speaker was right. Women and cats

have many qualities in common. I have another confession to make. When

I first thought of this question of women and cats, I am bound to say

that I felt that I did not like either cats or women, in fact I was not

sure that I didn’t dislike them.

But wait, please, my sisters, before you let your anger fall upon me.

This knowledge was so wounding to my self-pride that it forced me

into an inquiry. I had made a fatal mistake. I soon found the reason

of my dislike. I had been thinking of women and cats as a class and

not as individuals. I disliked them just as one dislikes the Chinese,

Portuguese, pigs or almost any other class of beings thought of

collectively. Of course this is absurd, but then nine times out of

every ten we are absurd—or unreasonable, which is the same thing, and

only by recognising this can we find the truth. Who is there who has

never admired some individual cat? Is there any misogynist who has

never loved some individual woman?

Before I come to the real subject of this woman—cat likeness, I would

like to say that we women are a little tired of being classed _en

masse_. We really are growing wearied of hearing about ourselves. We

claim to be appraised as individuals, some good, some bad, most of us a

compound of good qualities and bad, but not all alike, not collective.

We object to this communion of character. I remember talking to a

Frenchman about Englishwomen. He said, “By the ones and the twos you

are charmantes, très charmantes, but altogether—no—horrible!” This male

logic is ridiculous. Men revile us as a class and sell their bodies and

souls to us as individuals.

Now let us look further—What are the class-cat qualities that are also

the class-woman qualities?

Few subjects are at once so easy and so difficult to approach as this

one of woman and also of cat—our tiny, intimate tiger. We may purr

commonplaces, or scratch and spit rage, but the illusive individuality

of women and cats escapes description. Yes, the more I consider this

subject of women and cats the more convinced I am that this likeness is

a compliment to my sex. Like Balaam’s ass of old those who set out to

curse us are made to bless.

For a moment I want you to think of a beautiful kitten, of her

brilliant devilry, her perfect curves, the elusive wonder of her

unwinking eyes like orange flowers, the delicate nuances of expression

in her tail. Now, I want you to ask yourselves the nature of your

regard for this perfect animal. You prize her rather for her beauty,

than for her friendship. You call her pet, idiotic names, play with

her, then go away and forget her.

The kitten grows up, becomes a cat, and old. She ceases to interest

you. Her work is now to catch mice—to serve you. Do you think the cat

does not feel this change in her mode of life—this too sudden loss of

joy, which is forced upon her as soon as she attains her maturity.

If you doubt this, make a real friend—not a plaything—of a kitten.

We did this once. The kitten passionately loved my husband; when he

went walking she went part of the distance with him; often she waited

for him, or watched for his return loudly purring a welcome. Then my

husband proved faithless; the kitten grew old and less beautiful, and

we got a dog; he ceased to notice her. That cat died; yes, slowly pined

away from grief. I acknowledge all cats are not so sensitive; they

have not been made friends. The common cat develops an immense power

of ignoring your past passionate and playful petting. She becomes

distantly indifferent, or coquettishly variable—purring at one hour,

scratching at another. She remembers her past; she understands what you

valued in her. All that is herself she keeps for herself.

Contrast the cat with the dog. The blind worship of the one, the

exquisitely calm indifference of the other. The dog accepts you,

whatever treatment you give him, because you have loved him for

himself—made him your companion, your friend. But can you expect this

from the cat? You have never made her your friend; you have not found

it worth while to understand her. She deceives you. She scratches you

with those exquisite velvet paws do you annoy her. You cannot teach

her not to thieve. But why? She has no other weapon, and the great

life force urges her to self-protection. And how splendidly she defends

herself; how persistent and how successful she is in gaining her

desires. And how well she understands the advantages that beauty gives

to her; advantages she can gain from nothing else. There is something

really splendid in the trouble the cat takes over her personal attire;

to keep the seductive whiteness of her shirt front’s pretty fur, the

glossy shine of her splendid tiger skin. The dog would be quite happy

and proud when dirty—ugliness is allowed to him. But the cat!—only when

her self-respect is dead can she neglect to be beautiful.

Yes, now I have come to think about cats, I am filled with adoration.

With every force against her the cat has kept her power! Her rudeness

is sublime! Her aloofness is adorable! You may scratch her chin, she

will permit this if she feels inclined, but the allowing of this

familiarity does not forward your intimacy with her in the least—she

knows what your advances mean. Sometimes she will not respond to your

supplications—you cannot compel her. She wishes to sit upon your lap,

a dozen times you send her down and each time she returns; you want

her to sit upon your lap, and a dozen times she refuses and jumps

down. She imposes her will upon you with a lordship that admits of no

dispute. The personality of the cat is persistent and overwhelming,

she is inconceivably herself. Nothing living—no, not even woman—is so

self-supporting—I do not mean this economically, but artistically,—and

self-centred as the cat. She is the great ego—the supreme type of the

Super-Me.

I have said almost nothing at all about the character of woman. Is it

necessary? I think not.

THE WOMEN OF SPAIN

Wherever I go in Spain, in the streets of the towns, in the churches,

in the work-rooms, I am impressed with the fine types of the women;

their strength and quietness—the same quality which Valeria, the

Spanish novelist, speaks of as “a notable robustness.”

There is a fascination about Spanish women not easy to define. Not all

of them are beautiful, and it is, of course, easy to find women of

all degrees of ugliness, but the proportion of those who are strong

and beautiful seems to me to be very large. There is greater variety

of types in northern than in southern Spain. While there are many

women who are dark, with golden complexions, and quite Arabian eyes, a

proportion of fair women will be found with bright brown, auburn, and

some, even golden hair. One sees rosy complexions and blue eyes that

remind one of England; though mixed grey eyes are more frequent. Many

of the faces have finely modelled features, quite classic in outline.

Certainly the most beautiful and distinguished faces are not found

among the women of the so-called upper classes, but belong to the

fish-girls and market-women of the towns and the peasants of the rural

districts. And this presence of a really fine type among the workers of

a race is a certain indication of an old civilisation.

Many of the women workers in northern Spain are singularly individual.

They are usually tall, and have very distinct features, especially the

nose. It is a face in which every line has character, much strength,

and also humour, rising quickly to the beautiful eyes, but slowly

to the mouth, lengthening it into a smile. They all look like women

whom no man could venture to insult. I do not know whether one must

attribute it to their dress—the vivid coloured handkerchiefs which set

their faces, as it were, in an Oriental frame—but these women have a

serious, passionate look, which is completely fascinating. They are

different from the women of southern Spain, who are smaller, more

graceful, perhaps more piquant, but certainly less beautiful.

Living in Spain, you come to understand that this land is really the

connecting link between Europe and Africa. Both in their physical

traits and in their character, the Spaniards show their relation to the

North African type; seldom, indeed, is a Spaniard entirely a European.

And it is amongst the women that the resemblance stands out most

clearly. There are women with dark long African faces. You will see

them among the _flamencos_ of Seville or in the gipsy quarter of the

Camino del Sacre-Monte at Granada,—women with slow sinuous movements,

which you notice best when you see them dance, and wonderful eyes that

flash a slow fire, quite unforgettable in their strange beauty. In

dress you still find the Oriental love of bright and violent colours.

The elegant Manilla shawls and the mantillas which give such special

distinction to the women of southern Spain, are modifications of the

Eastern veil. The elaborately dressed hair, built up with combs, with

one rose or carnation giving a note of colour, has also a very ancient

origin.

Racial types may nearly always be best studied in the women of a

nation, and this is certainly so in a very old civilisation like

Spain, where many forces have combined to waste the men of the race.

Representing as they do both on the physical and psychic side a

conservative tendency, and with a lower variational aptitude than men,

women preserve more markedly primitive racial elements of character.

This may possibly explain why the women of Spain, on the whole, are

finer than the men.

How well I recall these women as I have seen them often, gathered for

the morning markets in the towns; chaffering, laughing, and carrying

on their work in the conversational Spanish manner. Here is commercial

activity united with a picturesque beauty, unspoilt by the usual

ugliness of business. Ugliness is not a necessary growth of progress.

There is terrible poverty in Spain. The peasants in the country and

the labourers in the towns suffer much injustice in too heavy rents

and an unfair burden of taxation. But as I have come to know them,

I have realised that the sum of their poverty is, after all, so much

less than the sum of their knowledge of the art of living. Not their

poverty, but their splendid capacity for eluding its misery, is what is

so remarkable. These workers have colour not only in their dresses, but

in their souls.

I see again a charming scene that I chanced upon one day in the

beautiful town of Vigo, which is situated in Galicia, in the extreme

north-west, and is one of the seaports by which the stranger enters

Spain. The day was saddened with heavy rain; a company of girls, who

had just finished their work of packing the fish for market, had

gathered in two empty railway vans, and were dancing together, in the

most delightful way, watched and applauded by a group of youths.

It was a dance of quick movement and of great variety. It was not a

dance of the feet only, every part of the girls’ bodies played its

part in the performance, the swaying figures, the beckoning hands,

the glittering smiles, that came and went in their dark eyes—all

contributed to the dance, which like all Spanish dances was a love

drama of intense passion; but always decorous, always beautiful. And

the watching youths took their part by a rhythmic clapping of hands and

stamping of feet. There was something infectious in this spontaneous

gaiety. These girls, I felt, understand happiness, and, as I watched

them, the world seemed once more a place in which workers could have

their share of the joy of living.

Nor does this overflowing and joyous vigour belong to youth alone. I

have seen mothers, stout and matronly, at play in the national games,

throwing large heavy balls of wood along the grass with a healthy

pleasure in muscular movement. Women, no longer young, may as often be

seen dancing as the girls. Well, I remember one woman; she was quite

old, and her skin was a yellowed mass of wrinkles. But the wrinkles

on her face were but the work of time and the hardness of living, and

went no deeper than the skin; they had not touched her soul. She was a

little bowed, yet she held herself finely, as indeed, do all Spanish

women. I shall never forget her perfect absence of self-consciousness;

her abandonment as she quivered all over with the excitement of the

dance—and she used her castanets with the innocent coquetry of a young

girl. There is something that may well give thought in this wholesome

energy, which is so abundant as to find its expression in play.

If I have emphasised the physical qualities of the women workers of

Spain, it is because I regard these qualities as being the outward

expression of intelligence and will. It is true that Spanish women are

not educated as we count education; many of them cannot read or write.

But in no other land can women be found with a finer understanding of

all that is essential in womanhood.

From the earliest notices we have of Spanish women we find them

possessed of a definite character of remarkable strength. Courage and

strength have throughout the centuries been common qualities among

Spanish women. The history of the _mujeres varoniles_ of this land

would fill a volume: women who would take the field and fight with a

sagacity and ferocity equal to, and often surpassing, that of men.

We may still associate the position of women with some of the old

traditions. Women are held in honour. Many primitive customs survive,

in particular among the Basques; and one of the most interesting is

that by which in some districts a daughter takes precedence over the

sons in inheritance of land and family property. As far back as the

fourth century, Spanish women insisted on retaining their own names

after marriage, for we find the Synod of Elvira trying to limit this

freedom. The practice is still common for sons to use the name of the

mother coupled with that of the father, and even in some cases alone,

showing the absence of preference for paternal descent. Velazquez, for

instance, is known to the world only by the name of his mother: his

father’s name was de Silva. It is significant that in no country does

less stigma fall on a child born out of wedlock; and the unmarried

mother meets a recognition that is rarely accorded to her elsewhere. I

questioned a cultured Spaniard on the position of the prostitute; his

answer is worth recording, “Our women give themselves for love much

more often than for money.” This statement may have some extravagance,

but I believe it corresponds to a real fact in the position of women,

which persists from a time when their liberty was greater than it is

to-day. The introduction of modern institutions, and especially the

empty form of chivalry, has lowered the position of women. Emilia Pardo

Bazan, the great woman novelist of Spain, has said, “All the rights

belong to men, and the women have nothing but duties.” Yet there can

be no question that some features of mother-right have left their

imprint on the domestic life of Spain, and that women have in certain

directions preserved a freedom and privilege which in England have

never been established, and only of late claimed.

The industrial side of primitive culture has always belonged to women,

and in many provinces in Spain the old custom is in active practice,

owing to a shortage of men through military service and widespread

emigration. The farms are worked by women, the ox carts driven by

women, the seed is sown and reaped by women,—indeed, all the work is

done by women. And the point to notice here is that the women have

benefited by this enforced engaging in activities, which in most

countries have been absorbed by men. The fine physical qualities of

these workers is evident. I have taken pains to gain all possible

information on this question. Statistics are not available because in

Spain they have not been kept from this point of view. It is, however,

the opinion of many eminent doctors, who were questioned by a Spanish

friend for me on this subject, that this labour does not damage the

health or beauty of the women, but the contrary, nor does it prejudice

the life and health of their children.

I have seen many charming scenes of labour; and among my memories

a visit I paid to a sardine factory in the town of Vigo stands out

clearly. The work-rooms open directly on to the bay; here the boats

come, the fish are landed and the silver heaps are washed. The airy

rooms were scarcely redolent even of fish; and the most scrupulous

cleanliness was evident. They were filled with girls, women, men, and

boys. I learnt that both the women and men are well paid, and that

there is no separation between the tasks allotted to the two sexes.

Women and men labour together side by side, capacity alone deciding

the kind of work done. The day’s work is the eight hours, established

in Vigo by arrangement between the masters and the workers; but when a

large catch of sardines comes in it must be dealt with at once, and

the workers are then paid overtime on a higher scale than their weekly

wages. I saw many ingenious and labour-saving machines, one, which

was worked by a boy, made the keys for opening the tins at the rate

of 140 a minute. I learnt that most of the machinery is supplied by

Germany. I was interested to hear that the waste pieces of tin, left

from cutting the boxes, were shipped to that country, to be used for

making toys. It was not, however, in these things that I found my chief

interest. What I chiefly remember was the fine appearance of the women.

I was impressed with their smiling and contented faces. Many of them

are mothers, and there is an admirable créche in connection with the

sardine factory, where the children are cared for. A more industrious

and charming scene of labour it would be impossible to find. I lost no

opportunity of inquiry into local industrial conditions. The workers in

this town are in a very favourable position, and in many respects Vigo

has attained to a degree of humane development under industrial life,

which other countries are toiling to achieve.

As workers the women are most conscientious and intelligent, apt to

learn, and ready to adopt improvements. From my personal observations

I can bear witness that their cottages, though very poor, are usually

clean, and their children are universally well cared for. Nowhere are

children happier or more loved than in Spain. The women are full of

energy and vigour even to an advanced age. They are certainly healthy.

I once witnessed an interesting episode during a motor-ride in the

country districts of the north. A robust and comely Spanish woman was

riding _a ancas_ (pillion fashion) with a young _caballero_, probably

her son. The passing of our motor frightened the steed, with the result

that both riders were unhorsed. Neither was hurt, but it was the woman

who pursued the runaway horse; she caught it without assistance and

with surpassing skill. What happened to the man I cannot say. When I

saw him he was standing in the road brushing the dust from his clothes.

I presume the woman returned with the horse to fetch him.

Women were the world’s primitive carriers. In Spain I have seen women

bearing immense burdens, unloading boats, acting as porters and as

firemen, and removing household furniture. I saw one woman with a chest

of drawers easily poised upon her head, another woman bore a coffin,

while another, who was old, carried a small bedstead. A beautiful

woman porter in one village carried our heavy luggage, running with

it on bare feet without sign of effort. She was the mother of four

children, and her husband was at the late Cuban war. She was as upright

as a young pine, with the shapeliness that comes from perfect bodily

equipoise. I do not wish to judge from trivial incidents, but I have

found in these Spanish women a strength and beauty that has become rare

among women to-day. When a fire breaks out in a small town or village

it is the women water-carriers who act as firemen. They fetch the

water from fountains and pour it upon the flames. Just recently I have

read of three of these women who lost their lives in an attempt to

rescue a cripple girl from a burning house.

I was never tired of looking at the Spanish water-carriers;

the fountains that are in every town are the most delightful

watching-places. The grace with which the women walk on the uneven

roads and their perfect skill in balancing their beautiful _jarras_ of

stone or copper called forth my unceasing admiration. One result of

this universal burden-carrying on the head is the perfect and dignified

character of the women’s manner of walking. These women walk like

priestesses who are bearing sacred vessels. They move erectly, but

without stiffness, with a secure and even stride, planting the foot and

heel together, light and firmly. There is something of the grace of

an animal in their movements—the alertness, the perfect balance, the

suggestion of hidden strength. I recall a conversation I had once with

an Englishman, of the not uncommon strongly patriotic and censorious

type. We were walking on the quay at La Coruna; he pointed to a group

of women-bearers, who were at work unloading a vessel, and said in his

indiscriminate British gallantry, “I can’t bear to see women doing work

that ought to be done by men.” “Look at the women!” was the answer I

made him.

It is interesting to contrast the robust heroines of Spanish writers

with the feminine feebleness and inanity which so often are the ideal

of English novelists. In Spanish literature vigour and virility, are

qualities apart from sex and are bestowed on women equally with men.

Again and again the thoughtful reader will be struck with this in the

works of the Spanish writers. It is a point of such interest that

one would like to linger upon it. I may mention, as one instance,

Cervantes’ heroines: the “illustre Fregona,” “beautiful, with cheeks

of rose and jessamine, and as hard as marble,” and Sancho’s daughter,

who was “tall as a lance, as fresh as an April morning, and as strong

as a porter.” Of Tirso de Molina, the great Spanish dramatist, it has

been said that he gives “all vigour to his women and all weakness to

his men.” Nor has this robust ideal of womanhood changed. We meet the

same qualities among the women depicted by the Spanish writers to-day.

Blasco Ibanez, in his “Flor de Mayo,” describes a young woman who could

meet “a stolen embrace with a superb kick, which more than once had

felled to the ground a big youth as strong and firm as the mast of

his boat.” Among the heroines of Juan Valera we find “Juanita” who,

“as a girl could throw stones with such precision that she could kill

sparrows, and leap on the back of the wildest colt or mule,” while Dona

Luz “could dance with a sylph, ride like an Amazon, and in her walk

resembled the divine huntress of Delos.”

It may of course be argued that these are chosen types that cannot

fairly be said to represent Spanish women. Yet the Spanish writers

are realists in a much truer sense than is understood amongst English

novelists, and it must be admitted that the persistence of the same

qualities in so many heroines proves a fundamental veracity in the type

presented; and from my own experience, I can testify that the women I

have known, in their vigour and independence, show the qualities of

these portrait women.

The fact can scarcely be passed over that these heroines almost all

belong to the country districts, sometimes even to the poorest people,

and if, as in the case of “Dona Luz,” they spring from a different

class, they are, as a rule, illegitimate, combining aristocratic

distinction with plebian vigour. This corresponds with my own

observations. I have found the women workers more robust and more

intelligent than the women of the middle and upper classes.

Nor is the explanation far to seek. The preparation that these women

receive for life is far inferior to that of the workers, who co-operate

with men, and whose lives are as actively productive, and work as

capably performed. The women of the richer classes lead lives of

marked inferiority; without opportunity for work, and compelled to an

existence of restricted activity, it is impossible to develop their

physical and intellectual qualities.

Most of these ladies, except when quite young, are stout, they

are less intelligent than the peasants, and few of them have ever

appealed to me as being beautiful. I hasten to add, however, that

they all have the fascination that belongs to Spanish women; a charm

not easy to define. I have spoken of this quality before, let me try

to make it clearer now. I believe it is that all these “senoras”

and “senoritas” understand that they are women, and instead of this

bringing them unhappiness and causing, as it so often does, the

indefinite unquietness that characterises so many English and American

women, you feel that they are glad that this is so. This is why they

are so attractive. Spanish women are in harmony with themselves, which

gives them something of that exquisite appeal which belongs to all

natural things. This is the reason too, why the older women are so

good-humoured, smiling and gay; they have none of them missed their

womanhood.

Here is the real reason of the admiration which these women so

universally arouse,—as women they are so perfect. This is a question

that reaches very deeply; it is a quality so easy to see, so difficult

to explain. What I wish to make clear is that the modern English ideal

for women leaves a wide margin open to desire; the innermost forces of

life too often are left unsatisfied, while the women of Spain, with

all their restrictions, know what it is that, after all, really brings

happiness for women. Which is the wiser knowledge?

The restrictions for women will pass with the expansion of modern life,

and then the strong personality of Spanish women, their energy and good

sense, will inevitably find expression when opportunity is given to

them. But never can they fall, in pursuit of outside things, into the

error of forgetfulness of their womanhood. There does not appear to be

any vagueness in the souls of these women: our women have so often too

much. In the composed presence of the Spanish ladies I have felt that

it is little profit to a woman if, in gaining the world, she should

lose herself.

THE DANGEROUS AGE

A TRACT FOR THE TIMES

I

Under this title the Danish writer, known as Karin Michaelis, in the

far-back years before the war—a time now marked as the terrible period

of the suffrage craze, gave to the world a remarkable and intimate

revelation of a woman. It is perhaps the most illuminating work that

has been written in recent years about women, from its rare quality of

femininity, expressed with an unconscious sincerity and biting truth.

It is very late in the day to describe a book which, though now

forgotten, was, at the time of its publication, very widely read and

still more widely criticised and discussed in almost all European

countries. It appeared at a time of great feminist unrest, which

accounts, to some extent, for the reception it gained.

The story matters very little, for it is not as the confession of one

woman that “The Dangerous Age” gains its importance, it is because it

affords a diagnosis of an old and a very great evil, as well it is an

acute observation of a certain type of woman’s soul or character.

It is from this aspect that I wish to approach it, and for this reason

I have called it “A Tract for the Times.”

Thus it is of very little importance to my present purpose that the

book is not a new one. It does not matter if the story is remembered,

or indeed, if the book itself has, or has not, been read. If the reader

will recall to his or her mind any one of the restless, unsatisfied

women they must know—women, not young but not old, they will have the

history (the variety in the details will not matter at all) of Elsie

Lindtner, the heroine of this story.

This admirable piece of observation deals with a section of women who

have come into being through our industrial civilisation with its

wrong ideals and stupid customs. Marcel Prévost[1] in his preface to

the book, speaks of Elsie Lindtner’s confession as a revelation of

the feminine soul of all time. With the latter part of this opinion I

entirely disagree. Rather would I say that it is a revelation of the

soul of woman as that soul has been evolved through the repression of

natural instincts and the want of satisfying fields for the expression

of energy, in an atmosphere which very surely gives birth to the modern

demons of confused desires and unconscious unhappiness.

The title of the book is not, I think, well chosen. The Dangerous

Age—Elsie Lindtner was forty-two when she wrote her confession—was

dangerous because of the life which had preceeded it. There is,

without doubt, a cleavage in life, which may be said to be marked by

the diminishing of attraction towards the opposite sex. But this is

common to men as well as to women. It belongs to no special age, and

its proportion of danger to the individual rests, first on the fulness

or poverty of experience before this period arrives, and secondly on

the power to extract from the past the joyous impulse for continuous

living. But to Elsie Lindtner, as to all women of such false and

restricted experience, it was far more than a cleavage, and because she

had never lived simply and completely, she experienced that emptiness

which strikes the soul with death when the consciousness comes that the

opportunities of life are passing.

The terror of approaching age robbed her of all her hope of future

happiness, just because she had emptiness in her past.

It is easy to condemn her, to speak of her selfishness, her falseness,

her colossal egoism—there are few adjectives of condemnation that I

have not heard applied to the Elsie Lindtner’s of life. Yet if we look

at the matter rightly, rather ought we to admire her for the perfect

self-sacrifice with which she pursued the one occupation.

II

The question at its root is one of right functioning. For mark the real

point of Elsie Lindtner’s history is this: all her actions were based

on search for pleasure. To gain the possessions of this world was the

fixed aim for which she bartered her soul. What does she tell us in

one of her letters? She is writing of her school-days. A class mate

had said to her, “Of course, a prince will marry you, for you are the

prettiest girl here.” She carried the words home to a maid who added to

the poison:

“That’s true enough,” she said, “a pretty face is worth a pocketful of

gold.”

“Can one sell a pretty face, then?” the child asked.

“Yes, to the highest bidder,” was the answer given.

The seed thus sown gave a rich harvest. Sex-trade became the object,

which Elsie Lindtner pursued with the same unflinching purpose

which directs all those who create for themselves the false gods of

possessions. Truly, while we support with our praise the successful

financier, we cannot in justice give less esteem to the woman who

pursues the same end in the way that is the easiest and surest of

success.

It is no part of my purpose to give a resumé of the history of Elsie

Lindtner. The details matter little; a structure of life built on a

false foundation must of necessity fall to ruin. And there is another

point I wish to make clear. The destroying penalty paid by this woman

for the gain of wealth and position was a failure of the power to

love. The real explanation of her unrest, hysteria, and manifold

symptoms of excitement was caused by the unceasing warfare within her

of two antagonistic forces—the desire for comfort and ease, partly

instinctive, but also fixed by habit, strengthened by a wish to keep

the moral dignity imposed upon women by the conditions of the society

in which she lived, fighting with the deeply instinctive desire for

satisfying sex experience to fulfil the functioning of life.

It is necessary for women to speak plainly. You cannot deny the needs

of the body, or prostitute their use, without the soul paying its

penalty. That is what women too often forget. A false purity held Elsie

Lindtner from giving herself to her lover, Jorgen Mallthe, and kept her

faithful in the letter of the law to the husband she had married for

his wealth. She had no children. I say without any doubt that she would

have been a purer and a better, because a happier and more healthy

woman, if she had followed the cry of her heart, at the first, as she

was driven in the end to want to do—when it was too late. That she did

not do this, but chose to sacrifice her lover in the same way that

she had sacrificed her husband must, in my opinion, be counted as sin

against her. Only the falseness which had wrapped her own life in a net

of pretence could have made her fail to see the truth for herself.

It is a fact of very special importance that Elsie Lindtner and all

the women who enter into this book belong to the Scandinavian race,

among whom chastity was extolled as the chief virtue of a woman, while

any lapse was punished with terrible severity. If the husband of an

ancient Dane discovered his wife in adultery he was allowed to kill

and castrate her lover. “There is a city,” says the Scandinavian Edda,

“remote from the sun, the gates of which face the north, poison rains

there through a thousand openings, the place is all composed of the

carcasses of serpents. There run certain torrents, in which are plunged

the bodies of the perjurers, assassins, and those who seduce married

women. A black-winged dragon flies incessantly round and devours the

bodies of the wretched who are there imprisoned.” Again, the Icelandic

Hava Maél contains this caustic apophthegm “Trust not the words of a

girl, neither to those which a woman utters, for their hearts have been

made like the wheel that turns round; levity was put into their bosoms.

Trust not to the ice on one day’s freezing, neither to the serpent

which lies asleep, nor to the caresses of her you are going to marry.”

III

Now, it may be asked: What has all this to do with Elsie Lindtner? My

answer is: “Everything!” The customs of a past social life do subsist

beneath the surface of modern society; we cannot without strong effort

escape from the chains of our inheritance. In the sad nations of the

cold north, where the natural joy of the body has been regarded as

something to be fought with and denied, a perpetual confusion has

arisen at the very source of life. For the sex-passion is a force, huge

and fateful, which has to be reckoned with. Woman is more primitive,

more intuitive, more emotional than man. And the outlets allowed to her

in the past have been more restricted; thus the price she pays for any

repression of the natural rights of love is heavier. Elsie Lindtner’s

history is a sermon to all those who set up the false god of chastity

for women.

I am aware that this statement will arouse opposition—especially in

women. To-day we hear much talk, and often among women who are working

nobly for the better life for women, of control of sex and the need of

imposing on men the same code of repression which for so long has been

imposed upon them. This is, of course, very natural, but that does not

make it wise. It is a truth realised by few women that repression is

not, and never can be, control. There seems to be a very widespread

opinion that to use the divine gift of sex even in marriage, for joy,

is wrong. One would be inclined to laugh, if the sadness of this

falsehood did not make one want to weep.

The whole subject, wide as life itself, escapes anything like adequate

treatment. The lady—the Elsie Lindtners of society—the household drudge

and the prostitute, are the three main types of women resulting in our

so-called civilisation of to-day, from the process of the past, and it

is hard to know which is the most wretched, which is the most wronged,

the most destructive, and the furthest removed from that ideal woman

which a happier future may evolve.

What, then, in conclusion, is the lesson to be learnt from this “Tract

for the Times?” Women must be free—free to work and free to love.

Then, and then only, can they claim to be the fitting mates of men,

then and then only, will they be able to fulfil aright their supreme

work as the mothers of the sons and daughters of the race. This is the

path along which freedom is to be found. What, then, is the individual

woman to do? This question is one which women at the present have to

answer for themselves. But one thing is certain—they must have the

courage to tear from their eyes the old and the new bandages that have

kept them, and still keep them, in the darkness of ignorance; better

even to sin and know the truth than to live in falsehood and in a

child’s world of pretence.

THE LEGAL POSITION OF THE MOTHER

In spite of the rapid advance that has been made, the legal

disabilities of women are still great. Especially is this so in their

relationship to their children.

Here where they should be supreme women have really no rights at all

under our laws.

They are not the legal parents of their own children. Only if their

child is illegitimately born, have they any rights of guardianship.

The law recognises the father as the one parent. He is entitled to the

custody of the children. He alone can say where they shall live or how

they shall be brought up: he alone has the legal right to decide how

they shall be educated or what religion they shall follow. No promise

that he makes, either before or after marriage is binding. The man may

change his mind at any time. The woman has no remedy. It is evident how

terrible a force for evil these rights may easily become in the hands

of an unscrupulous or vindictive man. If, for instance, the woman does

not choose to live where the husband directs, he may take her children

from her. Again, if there is any difference of opinion between the two

parents the opinion of the one parent—the father, must prevail. And

this is so even when the mother, and not he, is the supporter of the

family.

And the injustice continues even after death. The father has the right

to appoint a guardian to act with the mother, but a guardian appointed

by the mother can act only after both parents are dead. The children

have to be brought up according to any wishes expressed by the father

or even which it is inferred he has intended to express. This is

especially apt to cause trouble with regard to religion. Any relation

of the father (even when he himself has been either indifferent or

irreligious) may claim to have a woman’s children trained, _against

her wishes_, in the religion professed by the father’s family on the

ground that the father was nominally a member of that church.

Of course, when there is agreement between the parents, as happily is

the case in the great majority of marriages, the law does not matter.

Indeed very few mothers have any conception of their position under the

law. That is the only reason why these horrible and out-of-date laws

have not been repealed.

Fortunately they are unlikely to remain a dark blot upon our statute

book. An admirable Bill has been formulated under the direction of

the National Union of Societies for Equal Citizenship, which will

remedy this long-standing injustice. It has the long title of the

Guardianship, Maintenance, Custody and Marriage of Infants Bill. Its

two great objects are:—

(1) To make the mother as well as the father the legal parent of her

children.

(2) To impose upon both fathers and mothers the liability to maintain

their children according to their means.

There are many further admirable provisions, as for instance, the one

which gives both parents equal rights in appointing guardians. Where

the child is under 16 and has no property, present or expectant, the

case may be dealt with in Courts of Summary Jurisdiction (or Police

Courts). This is most important, as it makes the benefits of the equal

guardianship possible to the working classes, which would not be so, if

cases, as at present, had to be heard in High Courts or County Courts.

I shall not trouble to answer the few determined obstructionists who

have opposed this Bill. They say that it will cause difficulty in the

home, and provide a reason for quarrel between husband and wife. I

have too high an opinion of men and women and of their love of their

children to believe this. The cases of dispute, sufficiently serious

to be brought into the courts, will always be comparatively few. And a

decision of justice will be much easier when the partners have an equal

status. Then the welfare of the children will be the decisive factor

and not as now, the desires of the parents.

Equal guardianship laws are in operation already in many countries: and

wherever they have been established they have worked excellently and

must be regarded as a complete success.

PROBLEMS OF BIRTH CONTROL

It is generally admitted that there is much to be gloomy about in these

days of bad trade and post-war morals. And yet, perhaps, the poor old

world does improve in some respects.

One of the most hopeful signs of this improvement to me is the very

widespread interest that has been taken of late in birth control.

Conferences are held, law-suits are fought and won; pamphlets are

written and in almost every town lectures are given, and everywhere

groups of earnest-minded people come together to discuss and to learn.

Our sense of responsibility has been quickened in connection with

birth and the bringing a new life into the world. In a deeper and

more practical way we have come to know that no child should be born

_unwanted_.

Now, possibly all this suggests no very great moral advance to you. It

may be that you regard it as wrong to regulate births in any way. Yet

surely it is well for this difficult problem to be carefully considered

in open discussion. To avoid error we must have knowledge. For myself,

as I have listened to speakers or read of what is being done, though

possibly I am in sharp opposition to much that is believed and advised,

yet always I am glad when I reflect that only a little while ago the

very mention of birth control would have been impossible at any public

meeting, nor would any paper have noticed it.

Everywhere since the war the increased interest in the question has

been astonishing. Is it, I have asked myself, that the terrible loss of

life has forced us at last to have a deeper understanding of the value

of life? Certainly all over the world women and men are beginning to

understand the right of every child to be well-born.

The relations between the poverty of the family and its size must be

considered in connection with this question. Much stress is also

rightly laid on the injurious effect on the mother of continuous and

unwilling child-bearing, and on the resulting terrible wastage of life

in mis-carriages and still-births. Personally, I should always like to

hear more of the effect on the children unfortunate enough to live.

_For the child is unfortunate who is born into a home unwanted by its

mother._

To give life well it must be given gladly. There can be no deeper

tragedy than an unwilling motherhood.

The moral and religious aspects of family limitation have to be

considered. It needs to be emphasised how more and more religion to-day

refuses to divorce the spiritual from the material necessities of man,

and how it begins to appreciate that the bread-and-butter difficulties

of life have the greatest effect on the moral character of the people.

If a criticism on the work of those who advocate birth control may be

offered, it is that too much time is spent in saying what everyone

agrees with. Propositions, which all who think at all practically

accept, are gravely supported with elaborate arguments. More might

be accomplished if these elementary questions were left and freer

discussions given to the many grave problems which still await

investigation. There are so many questions on which far more knowledge

needs collecting before any definite conclusions of permanent value can

be accepted.

Roughly classified, birth control needs to be studied from three

different aspects:—

First, there is the effect upon the married couple.

Second, there is the effect upon the child.

And lastly, there is the effect of voluntary limitation of the

birth-rate upon society.

In estimating the consequences to the man and the woman, it is

impossible to neglect the psychological results.

The effect upon the mind is far stronger and more lasting than any more

direct result. I mean, it is what the individual woman or man _feels_

about limitation that is important for them. It is their own attitude

to what they do that will mainly decide the results it will have. This

is a question of the deepest complication. And much more knowledge

is needed, and the greatest care is called for not to form hasty and

unproved opinions. It is, I must insist, an individual question that

can never be arbitrarilly decided, even by those competent to form a

decision. That is why so much that is said, even by doctors who ought

to know better, is so absurd.

Much easier to estimate is the effect upon the child. Here we seem to

be on firmer ground. To save the unwanted child from being born or

conceived by drunken or syphilitic parents is a work of such plain

morality that there would appear to be no room for difference of

opinion.

Yet the question is deeper and far more difficult than this; there

are, indeed, a whole group of problems connected with it. There is,

for instance, the case of the only child, who always suffers grave

disadvantages, brought up in a home with adults.

Again the childless or one-child marriage is often not happy for those

who love children. This is felt, in particular, when one partner

desires children and the other refuses to have them born. And it must

not be forgotten that all that affects the parents, must also have its

results on any child that is born. Apart from economic necessities, the

small, limited family is, in many ways, harder to bring up than the

large family.

With regard to the effect of birth control on society, it is now

becoming a familiar reflection that often those least fitted to carry

out parental duties, because of faults of character or misfortune of

circumstances, have the largest families.

Here the main problem is not so much to teach the mere knowledge of how

families are to be limited as to induce that control and to stir up

such desire as will lead to limitation being practised.

But of course, the alteration of the characters of men and women is a

task of too great difficulty to be treated as a side issue.

Yet I would not end with any word of discouragement. As I started by

saying, the mere consideration of these difficult questions in the

broad light of day must be felt, by all of us who are old enough to

remember the attitude in the past, as a wholesome sign of the times.

We care more, and very slowly we are growing more honest.